“Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?” demanded the young man, doubting his senses.
“So that no one can read me.”
Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.
“And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?”
“I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: ‘Our ancestors did not all sleep.’ But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things.”
Ibarra drew out some papers.
“I know,” he said, “that my father greatly valued your advice, and I have come to ask it for myself.”
And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. “Whom shall I consult first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them all, I am almost a stranger.”
Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.
“You are going to realize my dream,” he said, greatly moved; “the dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never to ask advice of me.”